‘Walter. Alask Barron. Pleased to meet you at last.’

‘Likewise.’ Walter was as tall and thin as the street light, his back and shoulders bent the same way. ‘This is my wife, son. Grace and Jimmy.’

The faceless shadows behind him moved what looked like limbs. Alask held a hand palm upwards in their direction.

‘Howdy.’

‘And this is the space,’ Walter said, gesturing towards the hulk of the block behind him. ‘Take a look?’

‘That’s what we’re here for.’

Alask turned around to watch the convoy, a row of vehicles snaking into the car park, shuddering into silence, darkening.

They set up, slept in a hotel not far from the venue and spent the next day wandering the town signing autographs and posing for pictures. It was a routine they were used to, but not bored of yet. Celayn was mobbed by adoring men. Orpheus was followed by school kids, as he coaxed a spooky song from empty soft drinks cans. A group of huddled teenagers smoking cigarettes beneath an underpass recognised Meimo. The Palmer twins kept to themselves and all four of the Brants stayed at the venue, saying they wanted to watch the equipment and check the scaffolding rig. Alask knew they’d hang back. He even offered to stay. As ringmaster, it was his duty. Everyone agreed, however, that since he never visited any of the towns where they stopped, he should see the sights here. What little there were.

It was a strange place, too small to constitute a city, although it barely topped 20,000 residents and didn’t feel urban enough for a town, or rural enough for a village. There was the town centre, roughly half an hour’s walk from the venue, a high street of chains, coffee shops and drinking houses, boutiques and children’s clothing stores. Everything else was motorway lanes, churches, farmhouses overrun by weeds, vast empty spaces. Green fields and livestock, crops and hay bales, stiffened bodies of dry-haired scarecrows, dormant farm vehicles, empty sties. The smell of dehydrated cow dung, a distant hum of traffic. Silence, as though there was nobody left.

The Brants were sleeping when Alask and the others came back, and there was no sign of Walter Minsk, or his family. Alask climbed into the empty trailer where the scaffolding had been housed, sat with his back against the cool wall and smoked a cigarette. There was nothing more to be done. They were so familiar with each other’s routines, this part of the day had become the unspoken norm, each of them disappearing into or onto separate spaces: a shed, a lonely back room, a field of tall grass, a building roof. If they found each other, they would nod silently and walk on, find somewhere else. These were the last moments before dawn, the silence before birdsong, the touch of light on the horizon.